


when I am yours, when we are home

by thatgirlwho



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Non-compliant The Golden Circle, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-24 10:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10740213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwho/pseuds/thatgirlwho
Summary: These things, these second chances—they usually never worked out. Not for people like him. Fleeting hopes that never amounted to much, bitter reminders of what he always came so close to having.This time, though, he was lucky. Beside him in the jet, all the way home, Harry had slept soundly—Eggsy’s only reminder that, sometimes, things could be okay.





	when I am yours, when we are home

**Author's Note:**

> Like many people, I have been overwhelmed and inspired by the new trailer release. Also, inspired by Eggsy's gorgeous new car. And all the sad, endless possibilities of what happened to Harry after the church.
> 
> Title from [Hold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Cv6JEjevKQ) by Vera Blue.
> 
> **Note:** Though this takes place technically after the events of The Golden Circle, it was written before I saw the movie, so it's non-compliant.

London, after Kingsman is gone, is a familiar place that Eggsy feels like an intruder in. Touching down on home soil feels stranger now. He spends a baffling, strained moment standing on the open air tarmac, in a private section of Heathrow with a hedge-lined strip and enclosed by gleaming corrugated tin hangars, wondering where he should go. If he has anywhere left to claim as his own.

It’s different than the nights Dean would toss him out of the flat for daring to exist, daring to breath, and he would walk the streets until morning or kip on a park bench if the weather was fair: this is not just having no bed to sleep in, no place that feels his own. He’s inexplicably vulnerable to it, the unpleasant isolation of not having something to go back to, in a way that alarms him, makes him panic briefly; he's adrift, nothing to hold him down. All the things he had built his new life upon—the heady richness of the Savile Row shop and sprawling expanse of the estate that felt like his _home_ and the house at the end of Stanhope Mews with its honey oak floors and butterflies on the bathroom wall and Harry’s bathrobe still hanging off the bedroom door that _was_ the placed he called home—were all gone.

When he had left London with Merlin weeks ago, he had gone with the knowledge that he had lost everything, the belief that nothing good could ever last for him and this was the final hellish, rapid letdown of the permanently destitute, the recognizable warning that he should not try, to only resign himself to watching it always slip between his fingers.

He had watched his life fall apart continuously before him, always unable to stop the destruction and, sometimes, as he tries to fall asleep, he could see it all replay in his head, on an endless, ugly loop: unable to understand why his dad was never coming home; unable to stop Dean from hitting his mum the first time; unable to stop himself from goading and snarling—so filled with loathing and terror and rage—at the cop who had him handcuffed against the hood of his car; unable to pull the trigger with JB staring up at him, trusting him implicitly to not fire; unable to do anything but watch as Valentine lifted the gun, unable to tell him, tell him exactly what he felt, what he had meant to say if things had gone differently for them, _tell him now you won’t have another chance_ —all of this, over and over and over.

Unable to even speak, to say his name, when he saw him again for the first time, when he still thought, believed, him dead: _Harry_.

He had wanted nothing more than to reach through the glass, touch him, make sure he was real, feel the warmth of him beneath his fingertips like a reassurance—and he was unable to.

These things, these second chances—they usually never worked out. Not for people like him. Fleeting hopes that never amounted to much, bitter reminders of what he always came so close to having.

This time, though, he was lucky. Beside him in the jet, all the way home, Harry had slept soundly—Eggsy’s only reminder that, sometimes, things could be okay.

\--

Eggsy takes Harry home with him. Or, to a home. Not theirs, not yet, anyway. Eggsy wants to make it that way but they both need time. Harry needs time. 

Harry sleeps for the first week, rising at odd hours, wandering the house with lumbering steps, navigating hallways and rooms and corners with only one eye. He laughs at himself, saying he both appreciates and hates open concept floor plans. Eggsy makes sure the house is separated into rooms, with lots of walls and alcoves and linen closets. Harry walks with his right hand out before him for a long time and Eggsy has to look away.

Eggsy gets used to the strangeness of Harry, now. His trembling sleep and his distant gazes. He gets used to having to be careful. Not walking on eggshells, but being more aware. Of sights and noises that could take Harry back to that day at the church, activate that part of him that never truly shut down, the part that tore through him like a beast and reared its monstrous head within him, and kept him locked in that cell in Kentucky for months. He learns the subtle cues, the way Harry would suddenly go still, a focused lethal gaze turning his face blank, at a shrill sound; the twitch in the corner of his mouth at church bells on Sunday mornings; his hand gripped around Eggsy's wrist, long nails digging into his tender skin, when he sees Eggsy's gun sitting on the kitchen counter where he had set it down after he had cleaned it out.

Eggsy sleeps down the hall from Harry’s bedroom, with Harry's door locked; Harry insists on it and Eggsy's learned not to argue the matter. He keeps his own door wide open. Eggsy can hear the violent tremors of Harry’s nightmares sometimes, clutching at his pillow in the middle of the night, knowing there's not much he can do and that Harry would not want him there. That's the most difficult thing to accept. 

Most mornings begin with Harry emerging from his room slowly and blinking like he's just stepped out into the bright sun, to move about the kitchen, setting a kettle to boil, making toast. And most mornings, despite the uncertainty of the night before, Harry would talk amicably of mundane things, of random stories from a time before, of the weather and of making plans for the day. He will finish his breakfast and take the medications Eggsy gives him and he will go back to his room, to set the lamp back on the nightstand and right the tipped dresser, while Eggsy writes down in a notebook the date and Harry's progress: _August 15th, 2016: nightmares, medication doesn't seem to be working; try for a walk down to the corner again_. Sometimes, he crosses the entries out and starts over. 

Then there are the mornings when Harry doesn't come down for breakfast. When Eggsy knocks at the door and gets to no answer. When he has to pick the lock, hates that he's doing it, breaking the promise to keep his distance, and the bile rises in his throat from guilt and fear. The mornings when he opens the door to see the nightstand pushed to the other side of the room, the lamp still plugged into the outlet and on its side, the bulb flickering a cone of light across the floor; there's the curtains, torn down the first night, folded neatly in the corner, the rod tucked against the closet, the ragged gaping holes in the plaster where it used to be. And Eggsy has to asses the room like it's a _threat_ , one hand out in front of him, the other near his hip where he has a butterfly knife in his waistband, before he can approach Harry where he's crowded into the furthest corner of the room, knees to his chest, facing the wall, as if unable to bear witness to what lays before him. 

And those mornings, after Eggsy has sat with him until Harry can turn to look with him, a contrite look on his face like what has been done could be helped, could be controlled—and Eggsy thinks to tell Harry it can't, that it's not his fault, but he knows that's not what Harry needs from him—they put the room back together, methodically and without speaking. They go to the kitchen, Harry sets the water to boil. Eggsy gives him his medications. Those mornings, they don't share stories or plans for the day. A set-back, is all. A bump in the road. These mornings, Harry is not himself in so many ways, but he's still there, underneath and Eggsy knows this. 

Eggsy will sit with Harry, through the long silences and the shaking hands, because he must. He can do this no other way.

On those days, Eggsy only writes one thing in the notebook. _Tomorrow, we try again._

\--

Two weeks after they get home, one night when he had been washing dishes after supper, Harry drying beside him, Harry telling him a story about his university days at Oxford, before Kingsman, Eggsy’s mobile had begun to ring. It was sitting on the window sill in front of them—he had forgotten to silence it, something he always did the moment he stepped through the door. In a state of crazed panic, Eggsy grabbed the phone and threw it into the sink, where it continued to vibrate with a muffled, metallic thud. He looked over at Harry, mentally preparing himself for what came next—the furious glazed stare, the rigidity of his hands, limbs poised to fight—but Harry was staring back, a cup in one hand and towel in the other, looking perplexed. 

They stared at each other for a few more moments and nothing changed, no great calamity, no shift of rage, no losing of oneself. 

Eggsy had looked at the sudsy water, the few pieces of cutlery at the bottom beside his now defunct cell, and groaned, shoulders sagging in defeat. “Well,” he said placidly, “Guess it stopped it from ringing.”

And Harry had started to laugh, the first time since they had come back home. 

They said there wasn't a chance Harry would ever be the same again; Eggsy hadn't believed it, not for a second. 

\--

Slowly, slowly, he gets Harry back. 

In spare moments and in fleeting glances and in _thank you, Eggsy_ in the morning. In an off-hand remark about table manners at dinner and in a phone call to Merlin on the sixth day after the first and in Harry scoffing at something on the evening news, eyebrows raised in wary contempt. 

He gets Harry back on the day he buys a book about lepidopterology and he sits out in the garden to read it. He gets Harry back when he mixes Eggsy a martini and hands it wordlessly to him, taking his own sip as he turns the page in his book. He gets Harry back when he pauses at the threshold of the front door, blocking Eggsy from walking past him, and takes the snapback off his head with a frown, and Eggsy let's him with a smile. 

Eggsy knows he will have to wait. He's not sure how long for. He finds it doesn't really matter. He's not going anywhere. 

\--

"It's good to see you put your starting bonus to good use,” Harry comments idly. “In—British Racing Green, is it? Good choice.” Bending down slightly, he raps a knuckle, appraising, against the fender.

Eggsy looks behind him with a start; he had been beside the 1961 Jaguar in the small driveway in front of the townhouse they were staying in—this car, the first thing he has ever owned that he bought with his own money, put under his own name. It felt like a cornerstone, marking the beginning of this new life. He had wondered, absently, when he drove it home through the quiet side streets of Kensington the day he purchased it from a private collector in Chelsea, if Harry would have approved. Now, he knew and he couldn’t help but flush with a quiet pride.

"Thanks,” Eggsy says. “Not quite the same thrill as jacking it off a carpark, but she does alright.” Eggsy is slightly mortified that he’s said this, thinking it would be at least a bit funny and only realizing now how it sounded; he’s looking sideways at Harry to gauge his reaction, which remains largely unchanged, though he is watching Eggsy thoughtfully.

Eggsy clears his throat, hesitating for a moment, wondering if it was even a good idea, if it was too much too fast, when he asks, “Wanna go for a ride?"

And the smile Harry gives him is multiple things at once: glorious and achingly new and consoling. The tender part of him, the somber stillness at the very centre that he had kept hidden, silenced so he could do what was asked of him, the steady dull ache he had learned to live with, that was all just for Harry, felt much less like a burden to carry because of that smile.

"Thought you'd never ask."

Eggsy grins back, leaning forward against the door. "Where to?" he asks.

Harry considers this and says, "Anywhere."

\--

Eggsy wouldn’t call it a hill, it was far too modest in size for that, but it rose all the same from the otherwise flat meadows outside of London, a peculiar cliff with jagged rock and crumbling clumps of dirt and gnarled tree roots jutting out from it’s face. It was maybe twenty feet higher, looming over the winding gravel road that lead them to its crest, to where they were parked beneath a canopy of black popular and buckthorn trees, tangled at the criss-crossed branches. From this distance, and the marginal height, London spread out before them, a hazy, glittery mesh of lights. Still not far out enough to see the stars properly, despite the clear night, but Eggsy’s never much minded not seeing stars. In Kentucky, it was like the world at night had been tipped on its head, so close to drowning in the stars if only for one mistimed step.

He had found it by chance, a few weeks after V-Day. He had been ordered on mandated rest following back-to-back missions that left him bone-weary in a way that had him slumped over in his chair one afternoon, coming off a flight from Croatia, staring listlessly at the wall of portraits in front of him while Merlin tried to get him to go over his mission report. But as soon as he was sent out into the evening, the muggy air charged with the aftermath of a summer storm, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He had signed out the Bentley from the hangar and decided to drive back into London; he had ended up not paying attention to where he was going and turned onto on a side road that trundled up a slight incline, to here. 

He spent that first night sitting in the backseat, staring out across the sky as it bled from blue to red to gold, the clouds stretched like bright smears of grey across the curved horizon. He had thought London looked so small from so far away; he thought of Harry and knew, then for certain, he wasn't coming back. 

It had taken him nearly a month to accept that as truth. And still, when he said it to himself, it felt detached, removed from him. He never beared the weight of it. He never mourned, not like he should have. 

He was terrified to, honestly. To have it be that absolute.

Eggsy had come back to this spot a few times, when he needed time away from the demands of Kingsman, the insistent swell of the city. To sit in his car with the hood down, smoke his way through a pack of cigarettes. Watch the sunset, watch the sunrise. Cease to exist for the span of a night, so when he stepped back into the shop on Savile Row, he could hold his head up and carry the look of a man who endured.

But now, with Harry here, the once secluded alcove was filled with the sounds of Harry eating chips from a greasy parchment bag, music playing from a radio station Harry had picked, Eggsy tapping his fingers in an off-rhythm on the dashboard, a nearly empty bottle of lager in his hands. It should feel intrusive, he thinks, to allow someone into this place, to allow Harry into the place where had almost mourned him, but he hasn't reached for his smokes once yet, a restful satisfaction overcoming him of things finally settling into place that he hasn't felt in months. 

"Never thought I'd miss greasy chips so much,” Harry remarks after he's discarded his crumpled bag, wiped his hands and mouth with a paper napkin. “They brought me some in Kentucky, when I asked... but it's just not the same.”

This is the first time Harry's been out of the house since he came home. They had kept to the house, the back garden, once down to the end of the block on an late Monday morning, when all the neighbours had gone off to work or school, so they wouldn't be bothered. Since they set off this afternoon, Eggsy's been anticipating something, anything, to go wrong.

He's sure Harry would have commented on the familiar road, one Eggsy's knows Harry has driven himself to the estate, but Harry only looked contemplative, a finger pressed to his lips as he stared out as the meadows and trees that blurred past, his window rolled down so his hair blew wildly in the breeze.

They hadn't said much to each other once Eggsy had parked, sitting together in a comfortable silence, while they picked their way through the takeaway they had stopped for on their way out. It was already late in the day, the sky a dusky violet, thin streaks of grey clouds slung low across the horizon.

“What time is it?” Harry asks after some time.

Eggsy shakes out his wrist, turning his watch so it wouldn't catch the glare of the sun. “Just after eight. Want to get going?”

“No.” Harry shakes his head, settling back into his seat with a sigh. “I think I'd like to see the sunset.”

This takes Eggsy by surprise then he’s hit with a bleak understanding: it had probably been a long time since Harry had watched the sun set.

“Sure, okay.”

Some time passes, Harry looking serene, attentive. Eggsy tried not to stare at him these days but it was difficult: the patch over his eye was always drawing his attention, but it was everything else as well that made him want to stare. How he had seemed to age, the hard studious lines in his face having gone soft, the hair that was never styled as impeccably as before, how he still moved with the same efficiency and grace, but unhurried. Like he was taking his time.

“I spent months in that room, Eggsy.” 

Eggsy turned to stare at Harry, at a loss for words. Harry hadn't spoken of his time in Kentucky, not even when Merlin had hounded him for answers, explanations, on the flight back home and Harry had answered in terse, definitive answers that left Merlin frustrated, defeated, no footing with which to pry further and had left Harry in peace, to sink back into the seat, his good eye fluttering closed as Eggsy watched on, concerned what this would all do to him, being made to relive this horror, endlessly.

Eggsy had not even thought to ask his own questions. He had seen what it had looked like in that room, what Harry had looked like when he and Merlin had finally been allowed access to him—tense, defensive, frightened. The Statesmen had warned them that Harry was unpredictably violent, his triggers were erratic and brutally violent, thanks to deep-set rage and savagery within him that was activated by the SIM cards that had apparently never entirely turned off.

He had been told that Harry was—unstable. He hated that word. It sat like an unwelcome pressure on him, weighing him down. They had said words like _damaged_ or _abnormal_ , phrases like _extreme post traumatic stress_ and _inability to function_. They are all cruel, horrid things that Eggsy refused to accept, steadfast in his mulish, obstinate way that he wouldn't leave Harry behind, not for anything. Not again.

( _He's coming home with us. He needs to come home,_ he had told them, daring them to disagree. They never did.)

And Harry had come back home, with the patch over his eye and tremors in his hands and the need to always have at least one light on in any room he was in, though Eggsy has not yet asked why. It wasn't the same, it never could be, both of them changed so much that sometimes it felt like they were strangers to each other. But Harry was here and Eggsy decided he would take him whatever way he could, a bit broken, a bit unwell, but still _him_. Because, beneath all the hurt and months of captivity, the animalistic survival that made him dangerous, there was the man Eggsy had first known, the man who had believed in him, who saw the good, the undeniable worth and potential, in him.

Eggsy saw that, first, never lost sight of it, when no one else could.

Merlin, weary and hardened by the events that had come to pass, had suggested to leave him in Statesmen’s care until something could be arranged back in London.

And Eggsy couldn't bear the thought of leaving Harry behind again.

“I was surrounded by white walls and my sparse belongings,” Harry continues in a distracted, pensive way. “Sometimes books, newspapers dated back months. I only knew when to sleep when they turned the lights off. I started counting the hours just so I would know when the day would end."

The sun has begun to dip out of sight, leaving the sky, momentarily, a beautifully pale blue before it turns into near darkness, the glow from London lays out before them. Eggsy says nothing; he’s not sure what he can say.

"And I resigned myself to it.” There is a resilience to Harry’s voice, the gentle inflection at the end, letting Eggsy know this was the truth. “The loneliness of it all. I would go weeks without saying a single word out loud. There was no one to talk to."

"Harry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I know it doesn't make a difference but if we had known—"

"You think I'm blaming you?” Harry doesn't exactly smile but there is kindness, underscored with perplexity. “No, Eggsy, not at all. How would you have known?"

"I wanted to go back for you,” Eggsy insists, the words falling from him, as he’s thrown back to a vivid, caustic memory of standing at Merlin’s side, screaming in his face, his clenched fists shaking. “To bring you home... but Merlin—"

"It's Kingsman policy to leave fallen agents where they lie. I know." Harry frowns in thought, as if it troubles him to admit, to give such perverse credence to the workings of the agency he had given his life to and that had abandoned him.

How much they had given, they had sacrificed. They had done as they were told, never asked in return. And, still, at the end they all had been left with nothing. 

They lapse back into the comfortable silence that had defined their interactions the past few weeks. There had been so much to say, neither of them could have known where to start: for the first few days, they sat in each other's presence, stunned by the suddenness of nothing to do and apprehensive in the quiet that followed, avoiding each other’s direct looks, Eggsy tending to Harry in mumbled questions and setting bottles of water, plates of food, controlled doses of medication in the space between them, standing apart from each other on either side of the kitchen counter. It had taken time for Harry to come to stand by Eggsy on his own, the barest brush of his arm against Eggsy’s; and Eggsy had waited, had let him make that first step.

"I thought I'd never see a sunset again. I thought I'd never see a lot of things. I've missed many things." Harry looks surprised at himself as soon as he says this; Eggsy catches his expression, the curious mix of uncertainty, disappointment, complacency. Then he says, "Thank you for bringing me here. It was lovely."

"Yeah,” Eggsy says quickly. “Yeah, no problem.”

It will be late by the time they get back to London, even later by the time they drag their weary bodies through the front door and into their beds. Harry will need his medication, Eggsy will have to lock the doors and windows manually, disable the alarm. He will have to let Merlin know that they’re home, will have to let Merlin know how Harry was today. He will ask questions, he always does; Eggsy will have to tell him the truth. He will have to check Harry’s room, for heavy objects or sharp edges, before Harry can lock the door behind him for the night.

The thought of all the things left to be done before he crawls into his bed, the expected tediousness of things to be redone and restarted tomorrow, makes his head swim, drags him further into weariness. But it doesn’t bother him, not like he thinks it would. It’s something he must do, for Harry’s sake, and he knows he will, without question, without anyone asking.

The sun has gone, replaced with a near perfect darkness, the pale glow of the moon the only thing to see by. Harry, dressed in a navy cardigan and cotton shirt and jeans, casual in a way Eggsy’s rarely seen him, illumined by the brilliance of the moonlight; silvered and greyed, highlighting the shadows that dip below his eyes, along the curve of his mouth. And Eggsy cannot make himself leave, to let this moment fall away from him.

Not when he had so few good ones left.

"Eggsy."

Eggsy is caught staring and he flicks his gaze down, then to the side. "What?"

"You do realize,” Harry says, “don't you?"

Eggsy’s breath catches in his throat because Harry is looking right at him and he doesn't know what this means, but he does, he has an idea, a chance, a naive hope that he’s held in a eager embrace, afraid of giving it a name and coming to find it was all in vain.

"Realize what?"

"How terribly I’ve missed you."

Harry has turned in his seat, has taken Eggsy's hand in his, which was resting on the centre console, clammy and quivering; when Eggsy doesn't pull away, Harry lifts their hands, the gentle caress of long calloused fingers around his, to kiss his open palm. 

"You must know,” Harry says into his skin and it feels like divinity, like sparks threaded through him, searing his nerves, burning out his veins.

Unable to—speak, move, breath. For a moment, it is only the comforting touch of Harry’s cool lips on his skin, thumbs pressed into his jumping pulse point, that lets Eggsy know this is real.

The person who wanders the halls of an unfamiliar home like a ghost and the person who sits beside him now are not the same, but they seem to occupy the same space. And maybe there will always be a separation of the two, of coexistence and denial. Maybe it's how it will always be. But Eggsy is willing to know this, live with this, and this acknowledgement scares him as much as it emboldens him. 

( _I’ll look after you, Harry. You don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll look after you._ )

“Harry,” Eggsy begins. Tears sting the corners of his eyes and he's trying to blink them away, but it just makes it worse, clinging to his eyelashes, making everything blurry. “Harry,” he starts again, and cannot finish. 

(He starts again. He's started again. They will start again.)

Something undeniable, unspoken, surrounds them and it leaves Eggsy breathless, the air caught in his chest. Then, on the inhale, he lunges forward, seizing Harry by his jacket with one hand, the other still held by Harry's own and trapped between them, pulling Harry forward as he moved to meet him. Their lips meet in a frantic crush, Eggsy shifting to rest his weight to push against Harry, to get more of him, an insane desire to crawl into him, to drown in the taste of him, the warmth of his breath, the sour vinegary bite from the chips he ate. 

And even with Harry going pliant, eager, stretching out his fingers across Eggsy’s palm, some part of Eggsy is scared that this is not what Harry wants. But then Harry is hauling him forward, and Eggsy is clambering awkwardly over the centre console until he’s in Harry’s lap, straddling his thighs.

Harry gives him barely any time to readjust, his hands now caressing the side of Eggsy’s face, smoothing his thumbs over his cheeks, capturing him in another ardent kiss. Eggsy can feel the scrape of Harry’s teeth, nipping at his bottom lip, the surety of his movements contrasted with the heaving, uneven breaths that shudder out of him. Eggsy answers with his own grazing kisses, lingering across Harry’s jaw, breathing in the long familiar scent of his cologne, the one Eggsy had worn himself just so he could remember, smoke and sandalwood. He has both hands still grasped into the jacket, trying to push it down off Harry’s shoulders. When Harry shifts and the material falls away, revealing a grey cotton shirt beneath, Eggsy pulls back slightly to look at him, running a finger under the soft neckline, brushing against Harry’s skin, across the delicate rise of his collarbone.

“My dear boy,” Harry murmurs. He brings one hand to Eggsy’s waist, pushing up the hem of Eggsy’s sweater, his shirt, to spread his fingers across Eggsy’s waist. “How I’ve missed you.”

Thorough ministrations of deliberate touches, of Harry’s clever hands leaving trails of shivering want in their wake, Eggsy knows he’s coming undone, his focus narrowing to all the places where they meet, to his hardening cock twitching in his jeans. 

If he would ever admit how much he wanted this, how the thought of it captivated and tortured him in the months following Harry’s death, he doesn't know. But it’s here, devouring him its intensity to be felt and known, like its been waiting underneath all the despair and uncertainty he had faced in America. He only now knows how much he truly needs Harry, just like this—beautifully ruined and so faultlessly real and trembling beneath his own hands—now that Harry is with him.

Harry’s hands move further up his side, smoothing across lingering bruises and raw new scars, covering his skin, pressing down lightly, blunt ends of finger tips curling against his ribs. Eggsy buckles with this touch, gives way like a rushing tide, and sinks heavily into Harry, burrowing his face into Harry’s neck, the scrape of the stubble Harry has left to grow against his cheek making him shiver. It’s not until Harry’s hand threads through the hairs at the nape of his neck, murmuring encouragement and soft breathy noises of pleasure into his ear that Eggsy realizes he’s already moving, hips grinding down of his own accord against Harry, seeking friction and pressure against his now aching cock. He can feel Harry’s own erection, hot and hard even through the layers, making him pitch forward in an aborted jerk, clutching onto the headrest behind Harry to keep himself upright.

Eggsy fumbles with his fly, pressing wild desperate kisses into Harry’s skin, shoving hastily at his waist band until he can pull himself free, the cool evening air a momentarily sobering shock on him. Harry still has his one hand cradling the back of Eggsy’s head, the other anchoring him by tender touch alone, but he’s guiding him into a rhythm, fingers gripping just that much tighter, the heel of his palm kneading along Eggsy’s side.

“Want you,” Eggsy mumbles, his throat feeling thick, “want you—to see you.”

Eggsy works the button open on Harry's pants, shaking hands pulling at the belt, working it loose until Eggsy can coax Harry’s hips up, push his pants down around his thighs. Harry is breathless, panting heavily, his hand resting on the side of Eggsy's face, threaded through his hair. Eggsy looks up at him, enraptured by the sight of him, the flush spread across his face and neck, lips bitten red, the hazy, drugged out look in his eye, his hair—now always left unkempt, curling delicately around his ear, Eggsy always aching to reach out and touch—is swept carelessly to the side, an indication of years of refined decorum altered, of a man stripped back and laid bare.

"Eggsy." Harry takes Eggsy's face in his hands, tilts his chin up so Eggsy will look back at him. "Look at you, you beautiful creature."

Eggsy chokes on a gasp just as Harry pulls him in for a searing kiss, taking in all the little, keening sounds Eggsy makes as he wraps his hands around both of their erections and starts to stroke his hand up and down, using his thumb to spread the leaking pre-come down over them.

Eggsy's knows his movements are not smooth, the cadence of his hips stuttering and desperate as he fucks up into his fist and tries to rock forward, but he feels like he can't get enough of Harry. So long he went without him, without knowing knowing him or the weight of his hand on shoulder, on the back of his arm; it's all he had, only these phantom-touch memories, elusive and out of reach, fading with every morning he woke, one day further from when Harry was there. So now, he needed all of Harry, craved his genuine, tangible self to erase the months of hurt Eggsy had suffered under just to get to this place. To get here, where he thought he never could be.

He pushes Harry's shirt up, sliding his fingers across the planes of his stomach towards his chest, the shirt caught around his wrist. He leaves his hand resting against Harry's heart, can feel the thundering beat of it, watches Harry's fluttering stomach muscles as Eggsy fucks up into his hand, dragging his cock along Harry’s in a staggering, dizzying mix of pleasure and obscenity, the dark slick heads of their erections slipping together. Harry is so gentle with him, cradling the back of his head, breathy kisses pressed against his open mouth, Eggsy feels his composure lessen with each loving embrace, threatening to unravel him.

“You are—” Harry’s voice is hoarse, his words punctuated through short breaths and gritted teeth, fingers shaking along Eggsy’s neck, his grip going slack and he gasps, “—Christ, are everything. Look at you. So beautiful.”

Eggsy leans into the hand framing his face, his own grip tightening and loosening, the sticky friction of their cocks rubbing against each other, the press of Harry’s lips against the corners of his open mouth, reverent and possessive, sending tendrils of need down his spine, pooling low in his belly. It’s a frantic, panting, slick mess and he’s never had it any better than this: the moon high above him, the only thing to anchor him here the intermittent flexing of Harry’s hand across his neck, the faint sounds of their shared breath.

And if he was asked to do this all again, he would. If it meant he had this, Harry, beneath him so gorgeous and devastating, every breath ending on a moan, his hands on Eggsy like he wants to worship him, to desire him completely and obsessively, he would not hesitate. The loss, and the nightmares, and the unbearable loneliness he felt all those months. If it always brought him back here, to this place, he would do it all again, he would fight until he was bloodied and bruised, drag himself across the earth, if it meant he could have Harry back.

Eggsy watches Harry’s muscles flutter with every harsh inhale, every press of Eggsy’s thumb against the dark, slick head of his cock. He thinks he could stay here forever, watching Harry writhe with quiet, languid sways, arching against Eggsy’s every timid, insinuating touch. 

But Eggsy comes, with a choked-off yell, ragged breath punched out of him, when Harry slips a hand around his, matching the impatient strokes he had taken, spending too long feeling himself cresting along the edge of an orgasm. It takes one furtive look up at Harry, just a second to see the all adoration and need written plainly on his face, for Eggsy to come undone before him, shaking, releasing across Harry’s stomach, come catching between his fingers in a sticky mess.

Harry follows soon after with a breathless gasp, the still clasped around Eggsy’s neck tensing, bringing Eggsy forward until their lips meet, teeth clicking in a fervent press, barely a kiss for how they don’t move, caught in the inbetween.

When Harry’s hand loosens a bit, Eggsy heaves a breath, letting his hand drop to their laps, careful not to let anything spill from his fingers. He already feels it cooling to to tacky, disgusting mess in his hands, knows Harry’s probably feeling it much the same, but he can’t bring himself to be bothered to reach for something to clean it up. The space between them is warm, inviting, and Eggsy wants to sink back into it, never to leave, loose-limbed and sated. 

“I thought I'd never get you back,” Eggsy confesses after a few minutes, resting against Harry’s shoulder. Then he laughs, a small sadness overcoming him, shaking his head. Harry stays with his arms wrapped around Eggsy’s shoulder, letting Eggsy steady his breathing, their hearts thundering wildly against each other. “Sometimes, I think I'm gonna wake up and you're still gonna be gone. Like, this can’t be real.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Harry says, with such undue conviction, running his hands through Eggsy’s hair, that Eggsy feels the comforting truth of it spread over him instantly. 

Eggsy raises his head to look at him. “You promise?”

“I promise.” Harry’s still running his hands through Eggsy’s hair, tender, soothing motion that makes Eggsy’s eyes drift closed. Harry kisses the sides of his face, the hollow of his cheeks, the sweat-damp hair at his temples. “I promise, of course I promise.”

And he believes it, let Harry kiss him, lovingly and patiently with a gentleness that makes Eggsy's chest ache. And it's not that he's not unable to move right now, but that he is entirely unwilling, that he stays where he is. 

They had departed London for Kentucky so quickly, months ago now, that Eggsy was left wondering what it would feel like to come back home. If it would feel like home any longer, with everything gone. 

But he is back home, in a place that's beginning to feel like it once more and he is with Harry. He _has_ Harry. And though the future is unclear as to what will happen to them now without Kingsman to lead them, to define them, to give them purpose, he knows they will find it again, in time. 

For now, it's him and Harry and the road uncharted ahead of them and all the possibilities they thought once gone, now given back to them, to start again. 

And he thinks that wherever he ends up, as long as he has Harry beside him, it will always feel like home.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at [Tumblr](http://notbrogues.tumblr.com). I'd love to talk to you!


End file.
